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PAGE 

Fishing on Sunday. 7 

The Smoke Holes. 10 

The Outline. 11 

July Fourth in the Smoke Holes. 13 

Why Not? . 15 

The Challenge. 18 

Sunken Treasure . 19 

The Mouth of Beaver Run. 20 

Keyser . 22 

The Mysterious Visitor. 23 

Alleghany's Crest . 24 

Sunday in the Smoke Holes. 25 

Music on the Water. 27 

The Ketterman Mill. 28 

The Fishing Party. 30 

1883 . 34 

Hoodooed . 38 








































































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6 

































■Sfftaljtttg on 8>undag 

Six men to the Smoke Holes on pleasure bent. 

Worked all day Saturday on camp and tent: 

That night, from the toil, their forces spent. 

They slept the sleep of the just. 

The bright Sabbath morn dawned fresh and cool; 

Joe sat in the sun on an old camp stool 
By the edge of the river, observing the pool. 

A big bass leaped in the air. 

Joe Jacobs, you rascal, hurry up with the grub; 
These mountains are wild; there can be no rub 
With the law. We'll hurry and catch that dub 
Who challenges thus boldly. 

The grub stowed away, with the rod and reel, 

Four entered the boat; full of joy did they feel 
As they paddled away. Up the stream did they steal. 
Intent on hooking this boaster. 

Eight eager hands fell to with a will; 

Each begged the others keep perfectly still. 

The morning is perfect. We’ll each get our fill 
Of yanking the big 'uns aboard. 

We baited with helgrammites, fishworms and chubs, 
And fished and waited, till the trees and the shrubs 
Seemed to mock us and call us a bunch of dubs: 
Three sunnies were all we could muster. 


7 


We pulled up the anchor to float back to camp. 

When a native pushed through the thick bushes, still damp 
Shouting, '‘I want the name of each law-breaking scamp 
You’re arrested for fishing on Sunday.” 

Joe, Fogle and Charlie, and the other one, too, 

Somewhat shocked by this unforeseen hullabaloo. 

Scarcely knew for a moment just what they should do. 

Or how answer the uncouth stranger. 

Being guileless, the first three their true names did tell, 

The other one allowed he would see him in hell. 

And then to the warden he loudly did yell, 

“My name is Henry Ambruster.” 

“At Petersburg meet me tomorrow at four; 

My witness and I will be at the front door 
Of the court-house. The fine’s just a score 
Of dollars for each offender.” 

By using soft words, and with Joe's winning way, 

We induced that mean warden to grant us a stay 
Of a fortnight, when we'd all be going away 
Until summer came again. 

He met us at Petersburg right on the dot; 

From each he expected to get a ten-spot— 

His share of the loot for the words he had shot 
In placing us under arrest. 


8 



We sought out Arch Welton, a good sport and true. 
Who said he'd stand by us and see us all through. 

So they parleyed and talked, as all lawyers do, 

For two hours that hot afternoon. 

A fine was assessed of ten for the crowd, 

Making five for the warden, who had always allowed 
He’d get at least forty, and feel very proud. 

For it would buy meat for the winter. 

Taking leave of old Arch, who refused any pay, 

To Keyser we quickly were well on our way: 

Thus happily ended the troublesome day 
Caused by fishing on Sunday. 


9 


01}? ^ntofee ftaltB 

I know a place where the eagle soars 

High o'er the crags where the rough wind roars; 

Where the pines and oaks on the mountain's crest 
By storms and lightnings forever are pressed. 

Black storm-clouds now stain the heavenly blue 
As Boreas unleashes his restless crew, 

And eagles seek shelter amongst the cleft rocks 
Unwilling to face the aerial shocks. 

But the rain and the wind and the thunderous blast 
By their own very fleetness so quickly have passed; 

The ethereal blue of the skies once more 
To Heaven appears as the open door. 

In the valley below 'tis a joyous time; 

The river goes on in its course sublime. 

Rushing the gorges to the pool below, 

Where it loiters and ceases its restless flow. 

Old earth appears in her loveliest dress; 

Many mountain blossoms the landscape bless, 

Arbutus, honeysuckle, dogwood and laurel— 

Who couldn’t be happy? With nature, who quarrel? 

See yon kingfisher perched on a limb by the brink; 

That squirrel so shy, coming down for a drink; 

The humming bird, bluebird, cat bird and bob white,— 
Whence can come discontent in this land of delight? 


10 


©Iff ©utlttu* 


Our Jakie took the trot-line out 
And tied the end unto a tree: 

Said, “Come on, Cass, you good, old scout. 
Let's fix her up—just you and me.” 

We stretched the line across the stream. 

Each end secured to a fir. 

To bait the thing was not a dream; 

The others watched, but did not stir. 

A storm was brooding in the west 
As in we start to bait the hooks; 

An hour it takes without a rest; 

The fifty like two hundred looks. 

Down comes the rain as we start in 
To fix the lure on two score ten 

Of tangled lines and hooks. The din 
Of crashing thunder shook the glen. 

High winds and waves our frail boat shook. 
While rain in torrents did come down. 

The waters searched out every nook 

And threatened both the fools to drown. 

“Let’s chuck the job,” quoth shiv'ring Cass, 
Unfortified by mountain dew. 

Quoth Jake, “Why stop? This soon will pass 
Let’s work along till we get through.” 


11 


Now Jake was in a happy state; 

Glad fruit of many a wee bit nip: 

Cared not that rain upon his pate 

Beat down and from his chin did drip. 

We stuck it out and finished up, 

Tho* all the time the torrents fell. 

And rowed to camp in time to sup, 

Glad that our work was finished well. 

Next day at dawn the thunder peals, 

But out we go our line to scan. 

Expecting black-bass, turtles, eels. 

Enough to fill full many a pan. 

But all our hopes to ashes turn 

As hook by hook we find quite clean. 

We both with indignation burn 

That finny things should be so mean. 

How oft for wealth or fame or love 

We work and plan through storms and years. 

Yet all in vain our efforts prove. 

And leave us but regrets and tears. 


12 


3uly 3FnurtIf ttt life #ntnfee Soles 

The fog on the river lay heavy and thick 
As the dawn o’er old Bald Top crept slowly; 

The frog and the whippoorwill far up the creek 
Held their peace as old Saturn sank lowly. 

Now thrushes and bluebirds, gay cardinal and wren, 

Filled with joy at the new day just breaking, 

Start their twitter and song, as the early old hen 
Her brood to hunt breakfast is taking. 

Down conies Sam from his tent in the dim early light; 

Fills the cook stove with cedar so fragrant; 

Calls, “Get up, you fellows! do you think it's still night?” 
Say the fellows, “Shut up, you old vagrant.” 

But the odor of coffee; the clink of a glass. 

And the stirring of flapjacks just making, 

Appeal to the fellows like the lure to a bass: 

'Tis pleasant, this process of waking. 

Jake and Charlie prowl forth for the contraband stuff: 

Take it straight; not for them the fool mixture 
With milk—lemons—mint. It is quite good enough 
As it comes from the moonshiner's fixture. 

Now comes Riley and Joe, Allen, Stover and Doc.— 

In pajamas this whole crew is stalking; 

But the Day's started right for all of the flock: 

“Here's How” never has any balking. 


13 


We swim and we wash, and we shave, dress and eat, 
While our flags in the breeze fly so gaily. 

And the glorious Fourth we right cheerily greet 
Free from cares that have harassed us daily. 

We visit the spring; 'neath its waters so cool 
Brown bottles of Pabst are a-lurking. 

The spring and its treasure; ah, twice blessed pool; 
Didn’t George keep his brewery working? 

He won us our freedom; his mem'ry we praise. 
While we fish and we boat, pictures taking. 

Where else could one pass any happier days. 

When on set-back small sums we are staking? 

We pity the crowds who flock down to the shore. 

Or pack all the parks—full of litter. 

They know not our pleasures, unbounded in store. 
But come home feeling weary and bitter. 

So hail to the Fourth, all who know the best way 
To celebrate Freedom's glad advent. 

May all the misguided, who've wasted their day. 
Enjoy, in due time, one as well spent. 


14 


Uljg Not? 

Come and let us build a bunga- 

Low where strikes the morning sun. 

Let us end our days with nature 
Near the spot where they begun. 

Many precious years we've wasted 
In the cities’ toil and strife: 

Let us write our Magna Charta; 

Let us start a happy life. 

Let us search through Grant and Hardy, 
Where the streams so rapid flow; 

Where the mountains and the meadows 
In their peaceful beauty glow. 

Not forgetting grand old Pendle- 

Ton, with mountains tow'ring high; 

Sites aplenty here inviting— 

Let us to her beauties fly. 

Who will join me in this seeking 
For a place our days to end? 

Who will leave the city, reeking, 

Days and nights up here to spend? 

Under tow’ring Shenandoah 

Flows the South Fork, bright and clear; 

While, ’neath mighty Allegheny, 

Roars the North Fork, haunt of deer. 


15 


All along the Middle River, 

Bord'ring mountains filled with caves. 

Many charming spots abound— 

Come along; no more be slaves. 

We will build our future dwelling 
On a site beyond compare, 

Near a crystal spring and mint bed. 

Where the oaks shoot high in air. 

Who will say that gentle Afton, 

With our river can compare? 

He who praised the river Shannon 
Of our stream was unaware. 

Humming birds, with larks and robins, 
Shall make gay our flower plot. 

Squirrels, bunnies, little chipmunks. 

Play about this happy spot. 

We will have a boat for fishing 
In the pools so deep and blue. 

Violin, and books for reading— 

These appeal to me and you. 

In the spring we'll see the dogwood 
Dot the hills like snow on grass. 

Fragrant, ev'ry hill and valley— 

Odors sweet of sassafras. 


16 


In the drowsy days of summer 
We will seek some shady nook, 

Where in silence flows the river: 

There we’ll stop and bait our hook. 

In the fall we'll hunt the squirrels, 
Rabbits, partridges and grouse. 

Here there’ll be no empty game bag; 
Luck will follow our new house. 

We will have an open fireplace 
For the ev’nings wet and cool. 

These shall be our simple pleasures, 
Scouted only by the fool. 

Kindly neighbors from the valley 
Oft shall come to sit and chat 
Of the buckwheat crop—or hunting 
For the deer and mountain cat. 

Little gilt-edge packs of pasteboards 
Rainy days shall fill with cheer. 

Pass around that full decanter— 

Naught but joy shall e’er reign here. 

In the winter, with its rigors, 

We will pile the logs on high. 
“White as Snow’’ here has a meaning. 
“Simple Life’’ here we will try. 

Happy days filled with contentment 
Will be ours until the end. 

Shall we try this life of fullness? 

Then come with me and be my friend. 


17 


©If e CUfallrnge 


Come, let’s stir the festive pasteboards. 

All ye lads with any dough. 

You can win back your expenses 
If your wits are not too slow. 

Let us take a crack at red dog, 

Ye who are supplied with kale. 

It’s a hummer and a thriller; 

Many a red face it's turned pale. 

How about some cut-throat set-back. 

Any sport who has some coin? 

Here's excitement good and plenty— 

All in camp this game can join. 

We will start a game of poker 
For the boys who have the stuff. 

Cop enough to buy a sparkler 
If you’re slick enough to bluff. 

Here’s a table fixed for fan-tan. 

Come along with lots of jack. 

"Tis a game for Chink or Yankee: 

At the pot let’s take a crack. 

What’s wrong with some stud, cold-blooded? 

Have your pockets filled with cush. 

One can cash in good and plenty. 

If he has a lot of push. 


18 


S’uttbett (HrfaaurE 


Come, listen, ye lads who love the Old Stuff, 

I’ve a tale to unfold that is thrilling enough. 

The scene was right under a high frowning bluff. 

Where the river rolls on to the sea. 

Friend Volstead his ways o’er the country had spread; 

But campers must drink as well as be fed. 

Prentice, Cutter, Green River, their good cheer had shed 
In our midst, so happy and free. 

By revenue men, with their eyes sharp and keen. 

Our contraband treasure must never be seen; 

So we boxed it and sunk it in water thirteen 
Feet deep, just out from our pier. 

We marked the spot well by a sight 'cross the stream. 

Intending to dive when our thirst was supreme. 

Storms muddied the water—oh, hideous dream! 

Location and landmarks were gone. 

Haste, Charlie and Allen, Jake, Riley and Joe, 

Seek the joy of the camp ’neath the dark, murky flow. 

We poked and we dived, but, oh, the sad blow— 

Had the current removed it afar? 

All labored with haste as we watched down the road, 

Not wishing for strangers to note the abode 

Of the stuff of which Jakey carried many a load 
With joy to his innermost self. 

But honest endeavor will meet its reward; 

At twelve o' the clock we chanced onto the hoard. 

Each took a big bracer, stretched out on the sward. 
Thinking out a safer cache. 


19 


®ljf Urnttlj of Srtitifr Sum 

What a wonderful place, to a boy about ten. 

Is the creek at the mouth of Beaver! 

Back under the bank is the muskrat's den, 

At whose scent barks his little retriever. 

The water's so cool, and so green and so deep, 

That he can't see half way to the bottom. 

The vine-covered bank is so high and so steep:— 
Ned’s big fish—he knows now where he got ’em. 

In the willow above sings the redbird so gay; 

On the bank the old bullfrog is booming. 

Oh, this is the spot for a long, happy day. 

When never a storm-cloud is looming. 

v 

On the opposite side, which is pebbly and flat. 

Is the best place to fix up for fishing: 

Say, where is the fun with a ball and a bat, 

When this can be had for the wishing? 

He baits and he flings far out in the stream. 

With the aid of a good heavy sinker. 

And wants the great big one, oft seen in a dream, 

To grab it right quick and not tinker. 

For ten weary minutes does he have to wait. 

But his patience is duly rewarded. 

Some monster has given a tug at the bait 

When his pole was propped up all unguarded. 


20 


In the water it fell with a noise and a splash; 

It must be the four-pounder expected, 

And our boy grabs the rod with a leap and a dash, 
But his look is by now more dejected. 

He perceives he has hooked a mere little eel 
Instead of the bass, so much wanted. 

What’s biting can't always be told by the feel— 
In fishing we're often thus taunted. 

He caught seven sunfish, a turtle, a chub, 

And concluded at last to go swimming. 

His stomach was empty and aching for grub 
While the sun in the west was a-dimming. 

On the bushes he tosses his pants and his shirt— 
One's wardrobe at ten is quite simple— 

With never a care for the grime or the dirt 
Obscuring a delicate dimple. 

In the cool creek he plunges, his dog by his side: 
The minnows dart off, greatly frightened; 

Under rocks and the bank they will safely abide. 
Till their burden of terror is lightened. 

And so glide the days at this wonderful place 
On the creek at the mouth of Beaver, 

Where Nature presents such a beautiful face 
To the boy with the little retriever. 

Long since gone are the days when barefoot and free 
We were thrilled by the sunfish's bitin'; 

But the mem’ry brings joy both to you and to me, 
Our cares and our worries to lighten. 


21 


SCfjjofr 


A gem in the mountains is Keyser, 

Ne'er forgotten wherever we roam. 

Her skies always blue, her people so true; 

Here one knows the real meaning of home. 

Queen's Point broods in the air over Keyser, 

A hoary and rocky old bluff. 

Many a picnic so gay through the long summer day 
On its brow has found pleasure enough. 

Lover's Leap stands on the river near Keyser, 
Overlooking its waters so blue. 

It's a dangerous place if Cupid you face; 

Here his conquests are many and true. 


High Rock looms to the eastward from Keyser; 

A point in the distance so far. 

It makes a long climb and the view is sublime. 

But can never be reached by a car. 

The Pinnacle towers over Keyser 
So high that long lingers the snow; 

Its deep-fissured rocks is a home for the fox 
That hunts in the valleys below. 

Patterson's Creek is nine miles out from Keyser, 

A broad and a beautiful vale 

For anglers and campers; here the grey squirrel scampers, 
And scolds from the top of a rail. 

Time rolls along easy in Keyser, 

Blest town of my earliest dreams; 

Swimming, fishing and nutting, hunting, skating and cutting 
Rods for use on the clear crystal streams. 


22 


©Ife Jigatfrioua ttiaitnr 

One night in the Smoke Holes we slumbered and slept 
While naught but a lantern the long vigil kept. 

No wind was astir; in the sky every star 
Was twinkling and shedding a soft light afar. 

But at two in the morn we were roused from a dream 
By a Thing in the river coming fast down the stream. 

Over riffles and rocks we could hear its hoofs beat 
As nearer it drew to our drowsy retreat. 

A horse thief,—or murderer, what could it be? 

Was it horseback, or walking, getting over a spree? 

Still nearer and nearer it stumbled and splashed— 

We grabbed guns and horse pistols, and said we’re gol dashed! 

The Thing would get tangled in tent ropes and guys 
Unless we jumped up and gave it a surprise. 

From the front of our tent we emerged with a rush, 

But the clatter had ceased and a menacing hush 

O’er Nature had come. Far away a red fox 
With his bark made an echo against the high rocks. 

But the Thing that aroused us was not to be seen, 

Which did not allay our anxiety keen. 

We peered out with lantern and flashlight and jack, 

But no trace of our visitor, not e'en a track. 

We cussed the intruder aloud with such words 
That I’m sure their harsh nature awakened the birds. 

It was surely the Pegasus come back to earth 

That took flight at our tents when it found out the worth 

Of our battery, manned by good men and true— 

A swearing, determined and desperate crew. 

23 


AllnjIiamj’H drfst 


Deer Park, Oakland and Mountain Lake— 
What happy thoughts their names awake. 
July days, ever fresh and cool, 

Blankets in August are the rule. 

Glades stretching far as the eye can see. 
Shady walks beckoning you and me: 

Springs and ferns and groves and brooks— 
Forgotten are balls and dinners and books. 

The streams and rills can scarcely know 
In which direction they should flow. 

Some to Atlantic go for rest, 

And others seek Ohio's breast. 

Here Nature her loveliest charms display 
As we wander joyously far away, 

Forgetting the city’s noise and heat, 

But a half day's journey from this retreat. 

Could Omar have known such a spot as this, 
His jug and loaf he never would miss: 

With “thou” alone 'neath the trees he'd rest, 
Nor envy, of earth's great kings, the best. 

The Boiling Spring and Keiser Ridge, 

The high “Lookout,” the rustic bridge, 

The winding lake—e’en the B. O., 
Charm every sense and banish woe. 

From “Lookout Tower,” so high above. 
This land of romance and of love. 

The soul breathes thanks in the pure air 
For God, the Father’s, loving care. 


24 


#mti>ag in ilj? g>mnfef Suits 

Far up in the mountains, where eagles do nest, 

And foxes and squirrels and deer feel at home, 

Is a hamlet called Ketterman, peaceful and blest. 

Where the wise ones pitch camp; seek no farther to roam. 

The Sabbaths are quiet; no fishing is done 

Since the wardens descended and bade us take care: 

Then we searched for a church and found there was none, 

So we rest and play music and dinner prepare. 

In the long afternoon, from the poplar's cool shade. 

We spy some fair visitors coming this way 

In flounces and colors most gorgeously arrayed, 

Their pictures to get while looking so gay. 

We fix up our cameras, kodaks and such. 

And pose the fair maidens the way they like best. v 

Their giggles and laughter and moving so much 
To the art photographic adds some little zest. 

We get a few pictures after some little time, 

And their names and addresses write down in a book. 

To do this on Sunday isn’t much of a crime. 

When one's not permitted to bait up a hook. 

They pass down the road by the way whence they came, 
Whilst the camp takes to hammocks or watching the 
stream, 

Or on the tall poplar tree carving a name, 

Or throw 'cross the river with effort supreme. 


25 


A girl and her lover come up past the mill 
Who want to get ferried the river across. 

Allen grabs up the oars with a hearty good-will, 

And lands them over yonder where grows the thick moss. 

Along comes friend Sam with his small children four. 

Who know we have music and candy and cake: 

We get them all seated around our front door 

With the sweets set before them for each tot to take. 

Later on in the evening, from forest and glen, 

Where the whippoorwills whip and the foxes do bark, 

To test our corn juice come some of the men 
Who sample and talk until way in the dark. 

So Sundays go peacefully, quiet and calm; 

No sparrows nor trolley cars, whistles or 'phone. 

To the restless and weary they soothe like a balm, 

And for many bad days, these few good ones atone. 


26 


fHuatt on tlje Mater 

We anchored our boat at the end of the day 
In the midst of a stream where the glad waters play. 
With twilight fast falling, the time and the place 
Could not have been better on fair Nature’s face. 

A score of new records had just been brought in: 
Operas, fox trots, rag time, violin. 

About us the woods and the mountains were still, 
Except for the music of rapids and rill. 

For the swift-flowing river will always be heard; 

Its music awakens the song of the bird, 

As it rushes through gorges, o’er riffles, 'round bends 
With a pleasing lullaby that never ends. 

In this setting romantic the records were played; 

Over all, the high mountain had cast its deep shade. 

The melodies took an enchantment anew 

When the source of the music was hidden from view. 

Of the pleasures of camp, and full many there are. 
This close of the day excels others by far. 

It brings joy to the senses and peace to the soul— 
Contentment and rest—who has happier role? 

So we sit and we smoke when the glad day is done, 
Until Venus appears, and the last yarn is spun. 

Then in to our couches, reluctant we stray: 

Surely, this is the end of a most perfect day. 


27 


®Ij s SCtttrottatt iMUl 

Uncle Billy runs the mill 

Where the river makes its bend; 

Its restless wheel is never still, 

The stones go 'round without an end. 

From far-off hills they bring the corn, 
Mule-back, horse-back or afoot. 

To Ketterman at early morn, 

Where in the hopper it is put. 

The grist is soon to golden meal 
Transmuted by the river's might, 

While Uncle Billy, near the wheel. 

Makes sure its fineness is just right. 

In summer, when the stream is low. 

And empty seems the feeding race. 

To fill it up with vig'rous flow 

The leaking dam with brush they lace. 

Uncle Billy takes the boat; 

Young Andy in the stream doth wade. 

With rocks and sticks and logs afloat 
The dam's worst leaks are soon o’erlaid. 

Allen helps in this useful toil 
In bathing suit of blue arrayed; 

He fills the boat with leaves and soil 

From the river bed where an eddy played. 


28 


Again the race with water fills; 

Tight is the dam 'gainst wasteful flow. 
Eight feet upon the turbine spills; 

The wheels with plenteous power go. 

Our lives resemble oft this plant, 

Potential for great good to do; 

But wasted, frittered, ill-spent, scant, 

Filled up with movies, scandal too. 

Then let us try these leaks to seal, 

And gain the strength that should be ours; 
So use it that our comrades feel 

The world is better for our powers. 


29 


©If? Jftsljtng JJarlg 

Come on, boys, let’s all go fishing. 

As the day starts bright and clear; 

In a month we’ll all be wishing 
There was such a stream so near. 

Riley fixes up the lunch box; 

Rods and reels and hooks are sought. 

Tho’ the river’s filled with big rocks, 
These are where the bass are caught. 

In the riffles, too, they linger, 

E’en the water be quite swift. 

Many a time we’ve filled a stringer 
From the rapids—a gamy gift. 

Which of us shall catch the big one 
Ere the sun sinks low in west? 

He shall have the pot of prize mon- 
Ey for him who does the best. 

Let us fix ourselves for wading 
’Cross the river wide and deep. 

Ev'ry pool we’ll be a-raiding; 

Ev’ry rapid we will sweep. 

Hunt will we the big five-pounder 
In deep hole at base of cliff. 

What a thrill to hook the bounder— 
Feel the line so taut and stiff. 


30 


Joe is king to hurl the blackjack; 

Cass with fly thinks he excels. 

Riley, as to camp we back-track, 

On virtue of the live bait dwells. 

Allen yanks them with a spinner; 

Stoever hits ’em with a rock. 

Ernest takes a cat-fish “minner;” 

Jakie gets them from the dock. 

Frank, to give them quite a tussle, 
Starts up stream before ’tis light; 
Being keen to save his muscle. 

Baits near camp with helgrammite. 

Thus we start the morn off gaily— 

Bass or trout our only quest: 

For the thought is with us daily 

Storms may bring us mud—and rest. 

When we pull out eels or fall fish, 

These we to the natives pass; 

They esteem them far the best dish— 
Choicer than our trout or bass. 

Oftentimes Joe has a back lash; 

Cass’s fly takes to a tree; 

Riley slips and down goes kersplash; 
Allen's leader breaks in three. 


31 


But none of these little troubles 
Can suffice our day to spoil: 

To a fisherman mere bubbles 
Always looked for a la Hoyle. 

When we come to Skinner’s Eddy, 

There the lunch we do unpack; 

Ev'ry guy is good and ready 
At the grub to take a crack. 

Lunching here’s a triple pleasure, 

For our rods we bait and set. 

Scenery grand beyond all measure; 

Here’s the place to be, you bet. 

Riley starts his fourth light biscuit 
When his reel begins to sing— 

Grabs his rod and says, “I'll risk it." 

Gives a yank, and then, ah, bing! 

He's hooked a bass that is a honey, 

The trusty rod in double bends. 

This fish is sure to win the money, 

And so right here the contest ends. 

He brings to shore a big four-pounder 
Amidst the plaudits of the crowd; 

There's no such sport in catching flounder 
Where beats the surf both rough and loud. 


32 


Back down to camp along the river 
We’ll get a supper sizzling hot. 

It’s not for us—the bouncing flivver; 

We’ll fish at every likely spot. 

We reach the tents with loaded stringers 
And take a drink to break our chill. 

The cook says, “Boys, you got hum-dingers; 
Of sport this day you've had your £11.** 


33 


1383 


How swift the time has rushed along 
Since forty years ago: 

Scattered and gone the youthful throng 
We once did love and know. 

Many have entered the spirit world. 

The dearest and the best. 

Deep in our hearts, with love impearled, 
Their memory lies blest. 

But thankful we for those still left 
Whom years ago we knew, 

Tho' often we have been bereft 
Of dear ones loved and true. 

The landscape, too, now shows the change 
Since we were girls and boys; 

Queen's Point, then like a forest range, 

Is drab with dirt and noise. 

Cut off for fruit is Thunder Hill, 

Then green, and cool with shade: 

Vanished from Knobley every rill. 

Where once Camp Meetings prayed. 

“The Fort” was then all smooth and green— 
With dwellings now built o’er. 

New Creek—once water cool and clean. 
The fish play in no more. 

34 



At “Uncle Tom's" the fish pond then 
Wild ducks in spring did draw. 

In winter time it made a splen- 
Did rink, without a flaw. 

Across from town the river wide 
Its share of sport did lend. 

Persimmons on the Maryland side 
For snow did make amend. 

We boated here when days were hot 
In August and July. 

For skating, 'twas a perfect spot 
When New Year came anigh. 

How precious to our mem'ry yet 
Are youthful comrades' names: 

Carrie, Lulu, Cora and Net, 

Franks three, and two of James. 

There's Nina, Florence, Min and Jess, 
And Beckie dark and slim; 

With Tuck and Florrie, Nell and Wess, 
And Howard, Vause and Nim. 

No movies, 'phones nor swift auto 
To spin along the way; 

No aeroplane nor radio. 

We used a hack—or sleigh. 


35 


Yet back in eighteen eighty three 
Our lives were gay and bright: 

Our days were happy and care-free. 

And sweet our dreams at night. 

We went on picnics many a day 
To old Fort Piano, 

Or else to High Rock, far away. 

Where strong the wind doth blow. 

In winter we the rabbit tracked,. 

And coasted down the hill; 

Or skating went: we never lacked 
Sport for our time to filL 

In fall, on nutting parties gay, 

Far o'er the hills we’d roam. 

Our baskets filled, at end of day„ 
Reluctant, we’d start home. 

School was to us a pleasure then; 

The “Literary,” too; 

The good old “Prof.” was happy when 
The sciences we’d woo. 

We’d go to church and Sunday school. 
Quite sure our friends to see: 

And learn ’bout Balaam and his mule, 

Or of the Wise Men three. 


36 


The scent of honeysuckle sweet, 

Lilac or locust tree, 

No longer is for us the treat 
It was in 'eighty-three. 

Of life, the springtime is the. best 
Of all the times for me. 

With jolly friends and good health blest. 
From cares and sorrows free. 

So here we'll stop and hope that all 
Who read what here is sung, 

With the same pleasure can recall 
The days when they were young. 


37 


SfnoiunifSi 

By J. L. Fogle 

To the wilds of West Virginia, 

Where the mountains kiss the sky. 
Where the native waits to skin you 
Till you flash some old red eye. 

Thence a band of white men travelled 
From the north, the east, the west. 

By a mutual lure unravelled 
From the herd, to seek a rest. 

Sporty black bass, quick and sprightly. 
Squirrels whose tails were long and gray, 
Were the kind of game they rightly 
Hoped to bag and take away. 

But a Jonah of disaster 

All their plans was doomed to spoil. 

Close he followed—sped they faster; 
Hoodooed! Vain their hope to foil! 

Two A. M., their starting hour, 

Found it raining—clouds hung low. 

Cass to John, “ 'Tis but a shower.” 

John to Cass, “Come on, let's go.” 

Roused they then the other men; 

“Fools,” some cried, but just the same, 
“They're off,” and echo cried again, 
“They're off,” for forty miles of rain. 


38 


Roads were bad, they worse became: 

Skids there were in spite of chains. 

One car ditched, another lame— 

Clay is grease in autumn rains. 

Dark gave way to light at last, 

Autos had to act as boats. 

The mountains crossed, the showers passed. 
The sun came out, they shed their coats. 

Tents were pitched, supplies unpacked, 

Bait procured; but in the night 
Another rain, no points it lacked. 

Put the fishing out of sight. 

Fierce, determined men were they; 

Fish they must, let come what may. 

Thus defying mud and clay 
In went lines on Sabbath day. 

John, a perch he wouldn't keep. 

Stover jerked a sunfish in. 

Parson's line was out real deep. 

Cass, a bass, hurrah for him. 

“What are your names?'' a voice demands. 

“You all are under arrest, I say." 

Across the creek a fish cop stands. 

“It's agin the law to fish today." 


39 




For two little fish—a perch and a bass— 

Our fine was plenty, our feelings were worse. 

One got sick, no squirrels got Cass, 

Stove went home, and Riley cursed. 

But of all the things the bunch did hit 
The limit was the loss of ski; 

In the deep we planted it, 

Marked with a float so carefully. 

In the night the river rose— 

Naught was found of Mister Float. 

No more paint for the parson’s nose. 

No more use for the prohib. vote. 

None knew where the whisky lay. 

Hunt and poke and dive in vain. 

Thus the end of a perfect day. 

No booze, no fun, no fish, no game. 

L’envoi 

One bright spot of all should not 

'Mongst other things be now forgot. 

For of all his brews we ate a lot— 

Shull as a cook is a forget-me-not. 


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